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there’s things going on that … well, things just don’t feel right.’ If I’d expected an emotional outpouring, I was disappointed. ‘Have you seen this?’ he asked, going back to the newspaper. It was the afternoon edition of the one we’d discussed in the office; the dead girl stared out at us from the front page, demanding justice.
    ‘Do you ever have the feeling you’re being watched?’ Joe asked, staring over his shoulder.
    ‘Joe – you might have red hair but you’re not the Ripper’s type: your family jewels rule you out,’ I replied.
    ‘I’m glad you remember, Brodie, but I wasn’t talking about myself. I meant you,’ he said. ‘Do you ever feel you’re being watched?’ he asked again. His face was weary and I no longer wanted to laugh. A cold trickle of sweat dribbled down my spine.
    A primeval sense of wariness had me on edge. Joe was still scanning the horizon, and he wasn’t looking at the weather. I knew better than to laugh at him or dismiss his instincts. He held on to my arms, pinning them down at my side. The cold wind carried his scent to me and, as always, I cursed myself for responding. He noticed me involuntarily pressing up against him but said nothing. If I needed any convincing he was serious, that was it.
    Pride comes before a fall, I know, but I shrugged him off. I didn’t know how to handle the new Glasgow Joe, the one who could resist me. I stomped round to the other side of the pitch; I didn’t need to glance over my shoulder to know Joe was watching me.
    My smile fell.
    Joe wasn’t staring at me – he was scouting the Meadows.
    Hunting for the bogeyman.

Chapter Five
     
     
    Cumberland Street, Edinburgh
Sunday 23 December, 12.30 a.m.
    The point of the stiletto blade nicked the underside of my chin. A dewdrop of blood dribbled down my neck. This couldn’t be happening. Please God, don’t let this be happening . Pure panic controlled my body. I wanted to scream but I was shamefully afraid. The knife meandered down my throat, slicing open the cosy grey tee shirt I loved to sleep in. It had once, in happier times, belonged to Joe. Darkness hid the face of my torturer but I knew who it was, and he wanted me dead.
    The pain was slicing through me as he traced spirals with the blade. Opening my mouth wide to scream, a disappointing squeak came out. Gripping handfuls of the sheet, I tried to push myself up the bed. Perhaps if I could sit up, I’d be able to fight back . He second-guessed me and dug the point of the blade into my carotid artery. It danced as my pulse raced. I imagined a slow smile crossing his face. How had he gained entry? I’d recently been robbed and I’d installed new security; they promised me I was as safe as the Bank of Scotland.
    I didn’t believe them and I hadn’t shared their faith. The satisfaction of being right did nothing for me. I-told-you-so doesn’t cut it when you’re staring death in the face. I refused to expire pitifully in silence so I shouted for the first person I could think of through the fear – Joe. I knew he wouldn’t make it in time but just saying his name made me feel better. At least I’d found the strength to call on him, I reflected as his name rang out through my bedroom. Then my reality shifted. I woke up. Sweat had drenched the tee shirt but otherwise it was undamaged; just another horrible dream and a lingering feeling that the man I needed wasn’t there.
    I swung my feet over the side of the bed, and my toes landed in leftover pizza. The empty bottles of lager showed me just how much punishment I’d inflicted on my poor body – but I’d live. The phone was ringing in the hall. In an effort to get a good night’s sleep, I’d disconnected the one on the bedside table. Last night had obviously been a night of great decisions. I swore under my breath and trampled on the mound of clothes lying in a heap on the floor, smearing tomato sauce and cold mozzarella cheese on the LBD I’d bought last week from